


No Gentle Thing

by Historical_Muse



Series: Andy Serkis/Richard Coyle [4]
Category: British Actor RPF, british actor rps
Genre: AU, Angst, Dark Thoughts, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:11:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Historical_Muse/pseuds/Historical_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To sleep; perchance to dream:  ay, there’s the rub...</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Gentle Thing

**Author's Note:**

> An unexpected HP Lovecraft tone crept into this fic, but I think it works well. :¬)

 

_Oh, Sleep!  It is a gentle thing, beloved from pole to pole, to Mary Queen the praise be given!_

  
_She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, that slid into my soul._ ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge

 

*  *  *

When he wakes in the night, sweating and terrified by the things he’s seen, it’s with relief that he turns to Andy, curling himself into that hard, reassuring body as he’s assailed by visions of formless, shapeless things that call his name and reach out for him in the never-ending darkness.

Wrapping himself around Andy and holding on tight, keeping his eyes open to dispel the demons of the dark, he feels safe, Andy's solidity is all he needs to remind him that Andy, this bed, this room, and this house are real, and that the loathsome enigmas behind his closed eyelids are nothing more than the overwrought workings of a mind spent fixating on chthonic creatures created by clever writers:  they are no more than figments of someone else’s imagination.  He supposes it comes with the territory of playing a disgraced Anglican priest obsessed with hunting demons.  All the same, he never expected to feel as disturbed by this role as he is – as he understands it, **_Strange_** was only ever meant to be a quirky fantasy show made to fit the currently vacant **_Doctor Who_**   Saturday night slot.  And to think he turned down the possibility of a regular role in **_Robin Hood_**   for this!

Well, he regrets boning up on demonology, the art of HR Giger, and the works of H P Lovecraft for research purposes now.  Actors by nature tend to be superstitious and there still lurks the arcane fear that the strange beings that lie in wait at the edges of consciousness and reality can be given life and form by putting names to them.  Unlike Andy, Richard’s not one for seeing ghosts:  but since starting work on **_Strange_** , he’s not so sure he can dismiss the world of the supernatural – and it doesn’t help that much of the series is being shot in Crouch End and Highgate.  Sometimes, shooting stories about nameless things of the night in the area where he shares a house with Andy unsettles him because he feels that he might actually be drawing things towards himself and the safety of their home.

He often wonders if the emotions and mental resources called upon to create believable characters can indeed bring something to life, as Tibetan monks were said to create thought-forms – _tulpas_ – with the power of their minds.  The idea scares him because as John Strange, he has to imagine that he’s seeing all manner of freakish beings.  He can’t shake the fear that perhaps he’s somehow bringing these entities to life, feeding them on his imagination without the first idea of what he might be unleashing on a world where there are no petite blondes called Buffy or brooding vampires with a soul to help him fight them off.

He certainly sleeps badly these days, and he can’t wait until filming ends.  He’s not keen on the idea of the BBC commissioning a second series of **_Strange_** , either:  he hates being out of work, but he can’t imagine going through all this a second time.  He doesn’t _want_ to.  He can’t even snatch forty winks on-set without being assailed by terrible images – and at night it’s only the fear of shaming himself that stops him asking Andy if he can sleep by the light of a small lamp on his side of the bed.  The blind, amorphous, _writhing_ things are stronger at night, succoured by the darkness and his atavistic fear of the dark.  But while he can’t bear the thought of closing his eyes again when he wakes in the night, lying in bed and staring into the shrouded gloom is even worse for his dread of seeing something – something that didn’t resemble anything _natural_ – creeping towards the bed he shares with Andy.

Andy stirs then, as though disturbed by Richard’s thoughts.  Richard winds his arms around him and buries his face in Andy’s neck, his mouth pressing soft little kisses on the skin.  He does it more to soothe himself than anything else, and so he feels genuinely mortified when Andy growls out of sleep and mumbles concern for him.  Richard apologises for waking him, but Andy’s clearly only really half-awake, and will probably drop straight back off to sleep again.

It’s only when Andy’s mouth searches blindly for his own and he is kissed with sensuality born of sleepiness that Richard feels safe again.  Andy’s strength and passion always drive away the demons and his fears, as though they cannot survive in the presence of such positive emotions.

When Andy’s hand slides down Richard’s chest to his groin and then folds around his cock, Richard whimpers and cuddles closer, feeling himself growing hard with just that touch of flesh on flesh.  Andy then begins the slow, familiar rhythm with a tenderness that almost breaks his heart, and Richard can’t help releasing the moans and sighs that gather in his throat like bubbles of light.  He can’t help moving his hips, thrusting gently into Andy’s cradling hand and digging his own fingers into Andy’s firm, delicious arse as he kisses Andy’s face and then buries his own in Andy’s pillow-ravaged curls.

Oh, he feels safe now – so _safe_.  He gives himself up to Andy’s caresses and closes his eyes – only now the images he sees behind his eyes are full of light and the crawling, slithering, roiling things are dissipating, flying apart as they’re touched by the blue-white brilliance that soothes him.  And although the over-sentimentality of the thought embarrasses him, he knows that whenever he’s in Andy’s arms and being loved, neither dreams nor demons can ever truly touch him.

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

**Author's Note:**

> NB: Richard Coyle has actually admitted that he suffered from nightmares whilst making Strange.


End file.
